


Tectonics

by glitteratiglue



Category: Star Trek: The Next Generation
Genre: Enemies to Friends, F/F, Female-Centric, Femslash, Pre-Slash, The Star Trek Femships 5K, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-13
Updated: 2015-12-13
Packaged: 2018-05-06 12:03:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,082
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5416217
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/glitteratiglue/pseuds/glitteratiglue
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's a subtle shift.</p><p>(Laren and Deanna get trapped in a cave, and end up working out some of their differences.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tectonics

**Author's Note:**

> My second Ro/Troi fic for the Femships 5K.
> 
> They were going to do it in the cave, but then this story happened instead *hands*.

“Brace for impact!” Worf yells in the distance, and Laren dives for cover. The ground shakes, and she flattens herself against the wall, trying to avoid the rockfall.

The earth is shifting beneath her feet, and the walls are starting to crumble. All she can think is that this is all wrong; it shouldn't be happening, the initial terraforming survey didn't predict this.

And then a large rock comes loose, right above her head, falling too fast to avoid.

The last thing she remembers is a body slamming into her. Everything goes dark.

* * *

Laren's eyes flicker open, and she coughs. There's dust in the air, at the back of her throat and on her skin; she itches with it.

Deanna Troi is leaning over her with a medical tricorder, a concerned expression on her face.

Immediately, Laren thinks it must the universe's idea of a sick joke, because she _can't_  possibly be trapped with self-righteous, empathic Lieutenant Commander Troi.

She tries to sit up, but her head whirls and she feels a gentle hand on her shoulder, easing her carefully back on to the ground.

“Keep still,” Troi says firmly. “I'm trying to scan for damage.”

“I feel okay, I think,” Laren says sulkily, testing out her limbs - she can move her arms and hands. “It's just the pounding in my head.” There's a jacket under her head, most likely her own - her arms are bare. Something's trickling down her face and she reaches up, finding her fingers streaked with red. That's it, then; she's cut her head.

“Looks like a deep laceration.” Troi digs into the small medical pack at her side, all business. She presses a hypo to Laren's neck that stings and makes numbness spread throughout her body.

“What the hell are you doing?” Laren asks, trying to sit up but feeling too woozy to do so.

“I'm trying to save you, _Ensign_ ,” Troi says acidly, pulling out a suture kit with some long silvery thread and a sharp, pointed needle.

Fear throbs in the pit of Laren's stomach. “Tell me you're not using that on my head.”

Troi is unmoved; she stares right at Laren, unblinking. “Dermal regenerators take up too much room in individual med packs - polymer thread and surgically sterilised needles are standard Starfleet protocol.” She threads the needle. “Hold still, now.”

Laren isn't exactly sure why she's complaining; this is hardly the worst kind of field medicine she's ever experienced. Bajoran refugee camps without essential medical supplies took desperate measures to treat their populace. As a child, she'd had tree bark and herb poultices applied to her wounds; they’d stung terribly, and probably didn't help all that much. It was worse of course for those that suffered serious injuries; they didn't often make it, bleeding out in a matter of minutes without the lifesaving clotting drugs the Cardassian withheld from their prisoners.

Whatever Troi shot into her veins seems to be doing the trick; Laren shuts her eyes and tries not to grimace as Troi weaves the needle in and out of her skin - though it's a strange sensation, it at least doesn't hurt.

There's a stinging solution wiped across her skin. “There. Done.”

“Thanks,” Laren says grudgingly. “Let's hope I don't end up disfigured.”

“Well,” says Troi, smiling a little as she leans over her to check the stitches, “I know you've got a habit of questioning my competence, Ensign Ro, but just this once you might want to give me the benefit of the doubt. I've taken a lot of field medicine courses.”

At that, Laren flushes in spite of herself, thinking of the way she openly challenged Troi's authority last week, when that quantum filament hit the _Enterprise._

“Help me sit up?” she asks. Troi obliges, hauling Laren into a sitting position. The blood rushes to her head, but the throbbing isn't as bad and she can look around now.

There's a pile of rubble not three feet from them, and they're trapped in this small space with nothing but a malfunctioning medical tricorder (fluctuating planetary magnetic fields rendered a lot of their technology ineffective), an emergency med kit and their ration packs.

So much for a simple survey mission, Laren thinks peevishly.

“What happened?”

Troi is fiddling with her combadge; it's in pieces on the floor, as if she's trying to repair it.

She meets Laren's eyes, and she looks tired, her face streaked with dust, but she appears unhurt. That's good - not that Laren cares or anything, but Troi is the only companion she's got, and might be her only chance of making it out of here alive.

“Earthquake. The others were almost out when it hit; they should have made it to the transport area. A piece of the wall came clean away and almost hit you on the head.”

Laren feels the ache in her ribs, remembers the painful shove that knocked her sideways. “That was you.” She almost smiles. “Well, you're stronger than you look, I'll give you that.”

Troi smiles a little, but then she sighs. “I can't get this thing to work. All comms are down, and I couldn't even get the tricorder to check your vitals properly. So do let me know if you have any dizziness or other symptoms that might indicate serious head injuries or internal bleeding.”

“Got it, Counselor.”

“You can call me Commander; we're on a mission.”

Laren wants to roll her eyes, but instead says, “Yes, Commander Troi. Here, let me take a look.”

Troi hesitates, then passes the com badge remnants and tricorder over to her.

It's fiddly work, especially in this dark, small space, but Laren begins to make sense of the problem immediately. After a few minutes of rigging the tricorder settings to the combadge to boost the power, they make contact.

_“Enterprise, come in. This is Troi. I repeat, Enterprise, come in.”_

_“Deanna?”_ Will Riker's voice is faint, crackly, but it's there.

_“We're still in the tunnel. I'm unhurt, and I've got Ro. She's injured, but not badly. There's too much debris down here for us to move by ourselves.”_

_“We can't pick up on your signals, but we'll get to you soon. Data's got a few ideas, and -_

The comlink shuts off prematurely, and Troi's badge sparks. Looks like that's the end of their link with the outside world.

“At least they know we're down here,” Laren says, faintly cheerful. “Now we just need to do something to pass the time.”

Troi is silent for a moment, leaning back against the wall. “There was this old Earth game I used to play with my father: Eye-Spy. You think of a letter in Federation Standard, and something in the room that starts with that letter, and the other player guesses what it is.”

Laren crinkles her brow, but has to admit she's intrigued. She leans forward on her knees. “You're on, Commander.”

After a few rounds they've exhausted the game; there's only so many times you can guess 'rock' or 'dirt' or 'combadge' or 'tricorder'. It's a pleasant enough diversion all the same, and one that takes Laren's mind off the fact they're in a tiny, claustrophic space.

“So, do your folks live in some kind of Betazed palace, then?” Laren grins, unbuckling her belt to search for her ration pack.

“My father died, actually,” Troi says quietly, and Laren doesn't miss the way her shoulders slump, the way that confident light in the counselor's eyes falters.

“I'm sorry.” Laren could say, _me too_ , but Troi has surely read the psych profile in her file, and would it make a difference, really?

“Thank you.” Troi blinks, and her face smooths out into its calm blankness once more.

Opening her pack, Laren gulps down one of the hydration sachets and grimaces at the taste; at least it does the job.

When she looks up again, Troi is _smiling_ , of all things.

“It might not be a palace, but my mother's house is big. When I was little I use to hide in the guest bedrooms when she was trying to make me do something I didn't want to.”

“What, like go to a Betazoid charity ball?” Laren takes out a protein ration and chews it slowly.

Troi's eyes narrow before she laughs. “More or less. She was usually trying to convince me into wearing a hideous dress to an event that looked like an explosion in a colour shop.”

Laren smiles a little and tosses Troi one of her protein rations.

“Thank you," is Troi's quiet reply.

Some time later, they try to get some sleep. Laren's put her uniform jacket back on and though they have no idea what the time is, it's getting cold. Must be nightfall.

She can hear Troi's teeth chattering on the other side of the cave. “ _Troi,”_ Laren hisses into the darkness.

“Mmm?” The reply is faint.

“Get over here before you freeze to death.”

There's a pause, then the sound of feet shuffling. Troi drops down beside Laren and Laren throws an arm over her, pulls her against her body. Troi stiffens a little, but Laren strokes at her arm and she relaxes against her.

“We used to do this in the camps, for warmth,” Laren says softly.

Troi's breathing is shallow when she says, “I can't imagine what it was like.”

“Well, at least you know what it's like to have a dead father. Not quite a perfect life after all, eh?” Laren inwardly kicks herself, because didn't her academy instructors always tell her she had to get a handle on that smart mouth?

“No.” Troi's voice shows no trace of rancour; it's more resigned. “I was seven. He went on a mission and never came home.”

“Starfleet, was he?”

“Yeah. A lieutenant. That was probably part of the reason my mother never wanted me to go into Starfleet, but then I've never been much good at doing what she says.”

Troi laughs and her hair tickles Laren's face. Her hair smells good - like fruit - and it's silky. Laren feels a sudden urge to touch it and stops herself, keeping her fingers wrapped around Troi's elbow and her other hand resting on the hard ground.

“I don't really remember my mother, I was too young when she died. My father - well, you know.”

Troi's hand reaches back and slips into hers. “I know. You don't have to talk about it if you don't want to.”

“What else have we got to do in this cave other than tell each other our tragic life stories?”  Laren smiles, looking down at their clasped hands. “You know what I remember most about him? Music. He played the belaklavion when I couldn't, and it always made me feel safe.”

“My father used to sing me old Earth songs.” There’s a softness in Troi’s eyes as she speaks.

Troi’s fingers stroke over Laren’s knuckles, and Laren feels her stomach jump. It’s inconvenient, to say the least, to be feeling like this in such a small space.

What she just felt was electric, a prickle of unmistakeable _attraction._ If Laren was the gambling sort, she’d be willing to bet that Troi felt it, too, because she’s now looking away from Laren, eyes focused on the wall.

“Let’s get some sleep, shall we?” Troi suggests, her voice steady. Her body is warm against Laren’s, and her hand is gentle in hers.

Though the cut on Laren's head still stings, she passes into sleep quickly.

They’re woken by the sound of rock shifting.

“Ensign Ro?” comes the sound of Will Riker’s voice through the gap. “Deanna?”

Laren stirs; her limbs ache after an entire night lying on the ground. She unsticks herself from Troi’s back just as Commander Riker enters their space.

To his credit, he never says a word, but there’s a flicker of a smirk on his face before he hides it away.

“Ladies.” He nods. “Everything alright? Sorry it took a while to find you; Data had to figure out a way to search for your heat signatures — it wasn’t easy with this much interference.”

“Yes,” Troi says. “We’re fine, Will. Thanks.”

He takes Troi's hand and she gives it an affectionate squeeze, but she’s not looking at him. Her eyes are still on Laren, and there’s a funny little smile on Troi’s face.

They follow Riker out.

Troi hangs back to quietly ask, “Do you want to get a drink sometime?”

“Yeah,” Laren says, her mouth dry. “I think I’d like that.”


End file.
